


Carry Your Heart

by thewhitebirds



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Friendship/Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 10:54:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewhitebirds/pseuds/thewhitebirds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Love isn't enough," he said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carry Your Heart

_i carry your heart with me(i carry it in_   
_my heart)i am never without it(anywhere_   
_i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done_   
_by only me is your doing,my darling)_   
(e.e. cummings)

"You'll never love anyone as much as you love me," she told him.

"Love isn't enough," he said.

 

*

She was lying sleepily on one of the couches when he came back from the infirmary, arm in a sling. The Slytherin Common Room was deserted, with nothing but the faint crackling of the fire and the soothing, sloshing noises of the lake outside to disturb them.

"You didn't have to wait up for me," Draco smirked.

"You don't know I was waiting for you," she snapped guiltily. There was a red wrinkle on the side of Pansy's face from the side of the couch. She rubbed her eyes. Some of the green glitter was stuck in her eyelashes and fell onto her cheeks. She rested a hand on his shoulder; her nails were pink and purple and her wrists were tiny and bony, like a bird. "How's the arm?"

"It hurts," he lied easily, stretching out on the couch beside her. "An awful lot, you know. I'm sending an owl to Father about it."

She had the audacity to roll her eyes. "Well maybe," she said, lighting up, "They'll _fire_ that oaf and get us a proper teacher."

He got up and did what he considered a side-splitting impersonation of Hagrid, but Pansy said it sounded more like the child of Goyle and Millicent.

He sat down, disgruntled. "Well, you do it then, if you're so clever."

"I can't do boys, but look"--she ran her fingers through her short, dark hair until it stood up in a wild mess--"I can be Mudblood Granger." She stuck out her front teeth and raised a hand wildly, dancing up and down until he relented and laughed.

"You love me," she said flippantly.

"You sound awfully certain," Draco said loftily. Maybe at that second he did, though. He loved her pink and purple nails and her green glittery eyes and how she made him laugh.

"You'll never love anyone as much as you love me." she told him.

 

*

He kissed her on the lips for the first time at the Yule Ball; clumsy and awkward behind a cluster of bushes. She was surprisingly shy and smiled back nervously.

"D'you want to go and dance more?" he finally asked, unsure how to continue from there. As they walked back to the party, she slipped her hand in his.

 

*

He could feel her hands running through his hair, fussing over him. The countryside slipped by outside the train's window. She said something flattering, giggly, but he could hear the soft undercurrent of accusation. _Why didn't you write? You promised._ She scrawled her letters in purple ink, always ending with _love_ or _xo_ and he when he looked at them these days, he just didn't know what to say. ( _Dear Pansy, Father's in jail, and I'm a bit preoccupied right now. Glad you're having fun in France. Best, Draco._ ) So in the end he stayed silent.

 

*

"You're avoiding me," Pansy said, standing in front of him, arms crossed. Her eyes were hostile and the corners of her mouth curved downwards. "You're not eating. You're not sleeping. You've skipped three classes just this week. You look like a ghost."

"Don't be silly," he said shortly, even though everything she had said was true. "I'm busy, Pansy. Move."

_"Move?"_ she said shrilly. "You can't give me orders. I'm not Crabbe, I'm your _girlfriend_. You're trying to abandon your friends--don't think we all don't see it. The difference is I _won't_ let you. I won't!" For a second, it reminded him of the Pansy he used to play with when he was six, who, at slightest provocation, would shriek and shout and make a fuss to get her way.

"There are things I have to handle by myself," he hissed. _"Move."_

"I can help you," she protested quietly. "Draco. You lo--you _like_ me, remember?" He felt the weight of each syllable like a punch to the gut. Maybe I don't, he realized, suddenly, feeling irritation and terror well up. I hate her whining, her stupid glitter, those pink nails, her jealousy, her tears.

"I'm glad I have another person in my life telling me what to feel and think," he said icily.

"You never deny it, though," she whispered. They were so close he could see the glitter stuck to her eyelashes.

"It's not enough," he said, and pushed by.

 

*

He had barely stepped onto the train when Ernie Macmillan accosted him, round face red with anger.

"That - was - supposed - to - be - mine," Macmillan sputtered, jabbing his finger in the direction of the Head Boy badge pinned uncomfortably to the front of Draco's robes. "You and Parkinson are unqualified, I say. It's an absolute scandal."

Draco grimaced and wearily wiped spit off his face. He could hear a familiar clipping of heels in the corridor. He tensed.

"Shut up," Pansy said shrilly to Macmilan. "I'll report you to Headmaster Snape and confiscate your prefect badge if I have to. Come on, Draco." He allowed himself to be dragged towards the back of the train, her nails digging into his palm. He was suddenly aware of the dark circles under his eyes, the looseness of his robes, the air of unkempt exhaustion that perpetually surrounded him. By contrast, Pansy seemed to glow with health. There was glitter in his palm from her nail polish when he pulled his hand away.

 

*

"Are there any other concerns?" Snape asked every time as a formality after their monthly meetings. As always, Draco slumped back in his seat with exhaustion and shook his head.

"Yes, actually," Pansy said slowly. She looked down at the gleaming bracelets on her thin wrists. "The Carrows have taken to capturing pets in the hallways and using them for Unforgiveables practice. They tortured Astoria Greengrass's cat until it died. It should stop." She looked up.

"I'll look into it," Snape's expression was unfathomable as always, and he raised a hand in dismissal.

He cornered her in the common room after midnight, when they were alone. "Since when did _you_ become the defender of the downtrodden?"

She scowled. "It's our _job_ , Draco. The Head Boy and Girl have to address concerns with the Headmaster."

"You weren't picked for this job because of _qualifications_ to be Head Girl, Pansy. We all know that. You were picked to follow the Dark Lord's orders and _keep your mouth shut._ "

She muttered something and looked away, seemingly embarrassed.

"What was that?" Anger twisted his gut and made him ugly. There was nothing in his life that he could control except her, he had thought at one point. Not that she was something that could be controlled. Pansy was a force of nature.

"I said that not all of us learned to be murderers this summer."

He flinched as though she'd struck him. She looked up, eyes full of tears. "What _happened_ to you, Draco?"

"I grew up," he snapped.

 

*

They had never gone more than a month without speaking to each other, but they somehow managed open hostility until after the Easter holidays. He boarded the train clutching Narcissa's wand, eyes bloodshot and face bruised, alone and bitter. She was sitting in a compartment by herself, curled up on a seat, staring aimlessly out the window. Her hair had grown longer, a tangled dark mess around her shoulders. Her makeup was sloppy, nail polish chipped.

"Can I come in?"

She nodded, still staring out the window. "I thought about writing to you. I wrote letters every day and threw them away."

"I didn't think about writing to you," he admitted wearily. "My parents almost died, Pansy. He said-- he... never mind."

Pansy handed him a letter, crumpled from the bottom of her book bag

_still love you the most xx_

 

*

"You have to come right now." She clung to his arm, eyes wild.

"I'll be there in a second," he snapped. "I just have to grab something."

He waited until she was around the corner to gesture to Crabbe and Goyle, and they ran.

 

*

He hadn't thought about where he was Apparating, but suddenly, there he was, outside the Parkinsons' home. The old willow trees were still standing in a row and he limped past them to the white house.

The door was open; he walked in, painfully conscious of the dusty, grimy trail he was leaving. There was a cut on his cheek. He was holding a stolen wand. And suddenly, there she was, at the foot of the stairs. She was still wearing her school uniform, now rumpled. There were dark streaks of makeup on her cheeks, and for a moment she looked at him like he was a ghost.

"You _went back_." A tiny sob escaped Pansy's lips. "You _idiot_."

"I'm sorry," Draco said, because it seemed to be the right thing and because he had a hunch he would be saying it a lot in the weeks to come. They kissed, and she undid his shirt buttons with shaking hands--still so thin, so small--as they stumbled up the stairs.

"Love you," he murmured afterwards, watching her chest rise and fall under the blanket with each slow breath.

"Yes," she said in a whisper so low he wasn't sure if he heard right. "But is it enough for us?"

 

*

"I'm going to marry Astoria," he said, and the words tasted like chalk in his mouth. He took another sip of the firewhiskey, but it wouldn't go away.

Pansy was quiet for a long time, black eyes reflecting the fire. "I know," she finally said, playing with the long rope of pearls around her neck. "I always knew. Even before you did."

"I'm sorry."

"That's the thing," she said with a sad smile. "You really are sorry, Draco. But it's alright. We're too broken for each other, but I think you still love me."

He wanted to deny it, but it was true. He knew her better than he knew himself. He knew that they were three freckles on the side of her neck and a white scar on the back of her calf. He knew she had thin wrists and small hands like a bird. He knew her kisses tasted sort of cinnamony and at the same time like tooth-flossing stringmints. He knew that she had cried herself to sleep the first time someone called her pug-face. He knew that some days he hated her, but most days, if you cut his heart open, she would be on the inside.

"Love isn't enough," he said.


End file.
